


Alternative Treatment

by mycrofts-brokenheart (thisisourscience)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Bedwetting, Dream Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Hannibal Being Hannibal, Light BDSM, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Praise Kink, Spanking, swiggity swag the nightmare stag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 04:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisourscience/pseuds/mycrofts-brokenheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his dreams Will Graham sees himself impaled on a stag’s antlers, heart wrenched from his chest, the ripper sinking his teeth into the still beating flesh. He wakes from his nightmare, only to find himself lying in a puddle of his own urine on Hannibal’s horribly expensive sheets. </p><p>What’s to be done about my soiled sheets Mr. Graham?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alternative Treatment

It’s different tonight. This dream. Something is...off about it. Oh, the stag still lurks out of the corner of his eyes, but there are no angels, their skin flayed in macabre caricatures of wings, no mahogany haired girls laid out just so like virgin offerings to an apathetic god, no Tower of Babel, no discernible victim. 

Only a forest, lush and bristling with life, as the sun begins to rise, sky streaked orange-red, pink above. He’s walking, meandering really, feet treading over the loamy soil aimlessly. He can hear the slow trickle of water over stone as he approaches a river. Will stands at the shores of the river bank, toes twitching in the wet sand. Slowly he raises his eyes and spots it. 

Suspended over the water is a corpse, impaled on the horns of an stag. From his current vantage point he can see how fresh the corpse looks--not yet bloated, merely damp, the water painting the face green-blue in the soft morning light. A young man by the looks of it, and a far cry from Hobbs’ normal victims. 

The water is cold, and he shivers as the autumn air caresses his bare torso. He can feel the sleepy watchful gaze of the stag heavy on his back as the water licks his legs, rising higher and higher the closer he gets to the man. 

The clear water mirrors the sky above with its streaks of red the closer he treads. The blood is still warm he thinks, and immediately looks around him, but he sees nothing, no one. But then how? 

The corpse is fresh, so fresh it almost looks to still be twitching, its eyes seem to gaze at him, dark orbs glassy and accusing. _‘Help me’_ they say. The man is naked, unmarred par the clean incision on his sternum, blood pooling across the pale skin. Heedless of the blood he plunges his hand inside the still warm corpse and feels around, ichor staining his fingers a deep rust. 

This corpse is blessedly silent unlike the rest. He’s not sure whether to be disturbed or comforted by the anomaly. 

The pungent smell of blood is overwhelming. His eyes widen as stark realization flows through him. The heart is missing, snipped neatly with surgical precision. Chances are he was still alive when the still beating organ was lifted from his heaving thorax. Biles rises in his throat, hot and acidic, as he swallows and tries to clear his mind. 

He knows the face of the man, blue-gray eyes stare through him, curls flow out from the head like a watery crown. His breathe forms white clouds in front of him as he exhales shakily, into the cool dawn air, heart thumping erratically in his chest. Despite the frigid temperatures he’s begun to sweat, unwilling to admit the identity of the corpse beside him.

Because the corpse is no John Doe, it’s Will Graham. 

This is _my_ design.

A sharp pain lances him from behind--the stag he realizes. The sun is bright overhead. He always though death would feel cold. Instead he feels warm, a sticky uncomfortable warmth as it flows down his legs, over the sides of the antlers into the water below. Too thin to be blood--but what?--

He wakes up, chest heaving. His lower half is sopping, legs tangled in the sheet. “Shit”, he swears. If he were home he would strip the sheets and lay a towel down, but he doesn’t have that luxury here. After Hannibal kindly allowed him the use of his kitchen the other day, he was implored to stay over night. 

Tears begin to gather at the corners of his eyes. He hasn’t wet the bed since he was a child. The stress must be getting to him more than he thought. He raises his hand and wipes his eyes before swinging his legs off the bed. Shaking hands grasp the edge of his sweaty t-shirt pulling it off. He hesitates briefly before removing his ruined shorts as well. 

The smell of urine is pungent and he has to blink back tears at the shame that threatens to overwhelm him. Quietly he removes the sheet and carries it into the adjoined bathroom of the guest room. 

The light has his pupils constricting, trying to adjust to the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. He avoids the mirror completely, hands deftly turning on the faucet. Another nightmare, another day of ruined sleep marring his eyes with blackish circles he has no wish to see.  
The cream colored sheets are clearly expensive and he cringes before grabbing a bar of soap from the counter and plunging the soiled sheets under the running water. He lathers the stain the best he can, and scrubs frantically. The scalding water begins to sting, but he ignores the slow reddening of his hands in favor of his task. 

So ensconced is he in his task he fails to notice his host knocking on the door. The weight of a hand on his bare shoulder has him pausing like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, shame flaring hotly as he is literally caught red handed. He is suddenly aware how he must look, standing naked in the bathroom clutching the ruined sheets.

Despite the early hour, Hannibal is dressed impeccably in crisp white collared pajamas with a black with white trim dressing gown thrown over. His voice is still raspy with sleep, accent thicker than usual as wispy greyish-blonde hair falls into his face--Hannibal looks almost boyish like this he thinks. 

He struggles to think of an acceptable answer, eyes darting from tile to tile on the floor as he refuses to meet the other man’s eyes. Hannibal’s questioning, “Will?” has him stuttering out a reply. “I-I had a nightmare and I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to wake you--and these sheets I’ll pay for them, I apologize Dr. Lecter.” 

Hands grasp his chin as he is forced to stare into those knowing eyes, and Will--Will feels impossibly small under the gaze. Hannibal merely stands perfectly still, appraising him before speaking. “Nocturnal enuresis while uncommon for someone your age is possible, especially considering the abnormal amount of stress present in your day to day life, Will. You should not be ashamed, and as for the sheets, do not worry I have more. Why don’t you get dressed and come down stairs? Some tea will do your nerves good.” 

Without waiting for a reply, Hannibal leaves feet silent as he makes his way out of the bathroom. Will exhales a breathe he didn’t even know he was holding, as he returns to the bedroom to find Hannibal has left a simple cotton t-shirt and drawstring pants on the corner chair for him.  
He practically throws them on , thankful for something to cover his nakedness. He hadn’t brought any extra clothing, not having planned on staying the night, until exhaustion came on suddenly wrapping him in her star studded shroud. The clothes are large on him clearly meant for someone of Hannibal’s build. 

He steadies himself mentally before slowly padding downstairs. He can see Hannibal inside the kitchen, pouring steaming tea into two delicate tea cups, at odds with the man’s large hands. The minty aroma of the tea leaves is a welcome reprieve from the bitter stench of urine that permeates his bedroom upstairs.

“I’m sorry” he says in lieu of a proper greeting. “I’ve already said that I understand Will, no need to apologize for something beyond your control. Though I can’t help but wonder, what is it you dreamed of to cause such a reaction?” His voice is level, neither reproachful nor pitying, instead flowing out from his narrow lips in a steady cadence of syllables and sound. 

Will wrinkles his forehead at the question, not sure how to best relay his dream. “I was walking through the forest, and I came upon a river. It was dawn and I could hear the birds chirping incessantly.” He pauses to take a deep breath before continuing, “the-there was a corpse in the river.” He looks up for some kind of que as to whether he should continue but Hannibal is silent as the grave, merely tilting his head in affirmation of the unspoken question. “It wasn’t---a girl, oh god no, it was... me! It was my corpse mounted on the stag’s head, and my heart...my heart. He-he ate it. “

 _He can’t breathe_. His lungs constricting in his chest as anxiety coils menacingly in the pit of his stomach. His mind continues to cycle through the images with growing intensity. 

Every torturous breath has him re-imaging the scene, only this time he can see himself as his own killer. He feels such love, oh so much love for himself, as he gently severs his own aorta, hunger as he slices through the inferior vena cava and a sickly sweet rush of lust at the final incision to the pulmonary trunk that has his heart being cradled lovingly in his--no the ripper’s hand. Slowly he raises the succulent flesh to his mouth-- _“just one bite,”_ whispers the ripper. 

He is jostled out of his reverie by the sudden warmth of porcelain being placed in his hand. He doesn’t drink the tea, though it smells wonderful, just watches the smoke twirling in the air like a tiny dancer before dissipating. 

•

Hannibal after what seems like a lifetime finally speaks. “Your empathy is a gift William and you should never think otherwise.” He can’t help the self deprecating laugh that breaks free from his throat. Trembling hands lower the teacup back onto the saucer, unwilling to cause any more embarrassment to himself than he already had lest he drop it. 

“Did you know that some Native American tribes would eat the still beating hearts of their enemies in order to inherit their spirits?” He laughs uncomfortably, “my spirit, Doctor Lecter? You think he wants _my_ spirit?” 

“No I think your subconscious is merely trying to tell you something about your own life.” Dr. Lecter finishes his tea, the clink of the cup against the saucer reverberating throughout the kitchen with a sense of finality. This conversation is over.

Hannibal moves to place the tea set in the sink, Will can hear the sound of the faucet turning on as the psychiatrist cleans his hands before wiping them on a nearby dish towel. 

“Now then Mr. Graham. What exactly do you propose we do, to ensure that such an incident does not happen again hmm?”And when did Hannibal get so close? Merely inches away, hand deceptively light as it grips the back of his neck squeezing slightly, urging him to stand, before moving down his back and resting there as he is guided to Hannibal’s sitting room. 

“There are those that believe, corporal punishment is the best way to cure children of nocturnal enuresis.” “I believe we might start there Mr. Graham?” 

And damn if that doesn’t make his cock twitch in interest. He nods before he can catch himself. His throat is suddenly too dry and he licks his chapped lips trying to create moisture. Hannibal smiles at him, an upward twitch of his mouth barely noticeable.

Hannibal takes a seat in a plush red armchair. Even in his bedclothes the man paints a regal picture. Will slowly pads over, steps unsure, before standing a few feet from the other man, eyes cast downwards. “Closer William,” comes Hannibal’s voice and there is no room for disobedience in his tone. He walks until he is standing by the arm of the chair. A warm hands reaches out and grips his wrist firmly as Hannibal maneuvers him into position. 

Steady hands, a surgeon’s hands, pull his borrowed pants down his legs. The kiss of the air against his bare ass, the warmth radiating off of Hannibal, an overload of sensation. His knees buckle beneath him, as Hannibal catches him depositing him on his lap, legs hanging off the side of the chair.

There is something so raw and vulnerable about Will like this. Spread out over his knee, miles of soft pale flesh, Will Graham looks absolutely delectable Hannibal thinks. He wants to bite into the firm globe of his ass and see if it’s a buttery soft as it looks and feels under his palm. As it stands he has a punishment to dole out and no room for such thoughts about his _patient_. 

“I’m going to give you ten strikes my dear Will. Do you find that to be satisfactory punishment?” A sharp slap, recovers his wandering attentions, as Hannibal continues face unchanged but for a raised eyebrow , “I said William, do you find this agreement satisfactory?”  
“Ye-yes sir?” 

“Good. Now then I want you to count out after each slap. Should you deviate I will be forced to repeat myself”  
 _“Now, let us begin”_

The psychiatrist’s hand rains down fury and Will can’t help but twitch spasmodically whether from pain or pleasure he can’t be sure.  
Each lash of Hannibal’s hand is like a band of fire across his bare flesh bringing him closer and closer to the edge. Tears run down his cheeks and he grips the sides of the arm chair. 

_one.two.three._

_It hurts._

And yet his body is responding. The steady leak of precum from his cock is leaving a wet spot on Hannibal’s cotton covered leg and he hopes to whatever god may be listening that the doctor doesn’t notice. Will can feel his face flushing pink at the thought. It’s all he can do to stop from rutting against the appendage as the thought of Hannibal’s hands elsewhere on his body have him gasping.

_four. five.six. he grunts out_

Hannibal’s voice remains clinical, cold and detached as he speaks. “It seems Mr. Graham that our treatment is working.”  
Will forgets to count number seven, and suddenly the pain is gone, cool air prickling against his heated cheeks. He feels and hears the sigh rumbling through Hannibal, as the man speaks, “ Perhaps another method of punishment is in order, since you don’t seem to be responding as well as I had hoped, hm?”

He manages a weak moan in response, the pleasure coursing through him stealing any retort he may have. Hands nudge him, dragging him upwards, and he whines in protest, fingers clawing against Hannibal’s legs. “No, no , he mutters, I like it here.” 

“I know dear sweet Will, I just need you to sit up for a moment” Groggily he obeys, blinking slowly at the wall beyond Hannibal’s shoulder. He’s practically sitting in the older mans lap hands loosely curled around his bent knees. 

Will feels calmer than he has in a long time, pain settling warmly at the base of his spine, his cock is still pressed against his stomach, and he clenches his hands tighter around his knees, praying Hannibal doesn’t notice. Hannibal for his part has remained silent, and Will fights the impulse to look up. 

The good doctor however must finally make up his mind as to what Will’s punishment will be. “I need you to look at me Will, not past me, but at me, do you understand? “And Will does understand. 

Conversing with others is hard, especially for one with empathetic...gifts, like himself. He avoids looking directly into people’s eyes lest he become them. 

Hannibal though, Hannibal is different he muses. Whenever he looks in the psychiatrists eyes he sees only himself. There is no feeling of melting, of slipping away into guise of someone else, only to awake unsure if the blood lathering his hands is real or not, afraid he’s finally broken under the stress Jack continues to heap upon him. Every time he goes under, he loses more and more of himself. 

Somehow though he knows Hannibal is different. With Hannibal Will is wholly himself. Still the feeling of sustained eye contact unnerves him, a shiver running down his spine. Hannibal’s hand on the back of his neck squeezes reassuringly. 

He maintains eye contact unwilling to disappoint Hannibal a second time, and is rewarded as the psychiatrist’s thin lips stretch into a small smile, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. “I’m going to touch you now, but only if you keep looking” 

Deft hands leave his neck as they travel down the length of his cotton encased arms, gently prying his hands from his legs. Slowly, he drops his knees, straddling the doctor instead. A sigh flows from his parted lips as _finally_ hands slip into the drawstring pants, before grasping his cock. Will moans and arches into the touch. Desire courses through him, beating a staccato rhythm just under the surface of his skin. 

Sweet Will, always trying so hard, thinks Hannibal. Will shudders, hips arching upwards, mewling his pleasure, all for him. He watches, enraptured, as Will strains and pleads, his tired, aching body unable to keep up with his libidos demands. Will Graham who despite his obvious discomfort, stalwartly retains eye contact with Hannibal, as a deep blush colors his cheeks for his efforts. Hazy blue-grey eyes stare into his own brown ones, the vibrant blue reduced to a halo circling the black void of Will’s blown out pupils. 

Like the mythical siren songs of old, Hannibal finds him self inexplicably drawn to Will Graham. He’s not sure what exactly first drew him in. Will is attractive yes, more so than average, but Hannibal despite his love for aesthetics requires more. Something about Will sings to his blood, beckons to him as he lays in bed late at night unable to find rest. _Use him, break him, remake him_ , whispers the voice coyly in his ears. Will Graham is a puzzle, one he is absolutely dying to solve; and for once, unable to deny himself this, Hannibal obeys. 

He should have expected this. The older man under all of his carefully curated elegance,had always seemed...off somehow, as if denying himself some great pleasure whenever Will dared to stare directly into his dark eyes. The good doctor has always shown particular attention to detail and it figures he’s no different when it comes to matters of a sexual sort. A particularly rough upward stroke has him moaning wantonly, body practically melting into Hannibal’s touch. 

Compliance seems to have been a good idea as Hannibal murmurs praise above him, languidly petting his chestnut curls. “You’re doing so well” and Will is thankful, he doesn’t believe in a God, but he’d be damned if he didn’t admit to the flutter of warmth that rushed through him at the praise. “Well” is not a word he hears often, too often enough Jack takes his gift for granted unaware of the affect it has on his already deteriorating mental state. 

Hands well worn from their surgical work continue to glide over his swollen cock. He’s in rare form, so completely absorbed in his pleasure that he almost closes his eyes. It’s enough of a slip up for Hannibal to notice and suddenly the hand tightens vice like around the base of his cock, and he keens high in his throat. The praise had nearly sent him over the edge, and he wants to fall so badly. he can see it in his minds eye, the proverbial edge of no return. Some is changing between them, they can’t go back . Hannibal had said he would find him interesting, but he never thought it would end up coming to pass in this way. 

He manages to stutter out , “F-fuck” before he comes, gasping, into Hannibal's warm, long-fingered hand. There’s an inherent sense of wrongness, something he’s missed, floating just a bit too far from his periphery for him to fully grasp. 

“That should suffice”, and if the roughness of his voice surprises Will, he doesn’t say anything. The picture Will paints is an exquisite one, chocolate brown curls fanning out from his head like a halo as he lies on the deep red chair, come speckled chest heaving as he comes down from his orgasm. He lets William calm down before carrying his drooping, sleepy form up the stairs to bed. He lingers longer than he should, staring at Will’s prone form, before finally he turns and leaves taking the light of the hall with him. _“Do see that you remember this lesson, Mr. Graham. I’d hate to have to repeat it.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Now I lay me down to sleep  
>  I pray the Lord my soul to keep,  
> thy angels watch me through the night,  
> And keep me safe till morning's light.
> 
> The day I write something in which the characters end up happy will never happen it seems. I hope you liked it. I've been meaning to post this since last spring or so haha.


End file.
